A Valentine

The things that helped me fall for my husband somehow became the things that annoyed me after a while. His deep West Texas baritone became a loud nasal whine. His stylish fedora became a source of frustration every time I replaced a hat he lost. The lovely music he played on the piano stopped. The poems he wrote and recited didn't pay the bills. But this morning, as I commented on how this morning's fog hid the city's ugliness, Richard recited part of a poem:

"The fog comes
on little cat feet.

"It sits looking
over harbor and city"

It's part of a Carl Sandburg poem, "Fog." I vaguely remember Sandburg from high school American literature, but fortunately for us, Google has made it easy for those of us who only read about 10 percent of what was assigned.

Fog

The fog comes
on little cat feet.

It sits looking
over harbor and city
on silent haunches
and then moves on.

Maybe it's because I was never good at poetry, but I'm impressed with people who can recite poetry, especially when it's about whatever situation we're in. Richard does that, not too often that it became a cheap trick, but enough that it feels special every time, even if it's not a romantic poem. This morning, I felt like the luckiest woman in town.

Or maybe I'm just a sucker for lines.